Halting and walikng in strange dead seasons
by Eric Ratcliffe
through the weak light of ghost Octobers,
surrendered to the final lute
they sing from melodies unborn
They have chanted how they remembered
the first sleeping diamonds of dew
on the white flowers left weeping
by the wall in the graveyard dawn.
They have forgotten that instant without breath
in the green midnight glory of cool ferns,
that moment in the lonely bedroom
when a whole heart sighed through curled fingers
and passed between two winds in the corn.